Cox Internet

So, my apartment complex was built some time in the mid to late 1980's (I'm pretty sure). The rise of the internet sparked a retrofitting craze, where hubs and signal amplifiers were built into these old complexes to make normal people capable of high-powered internet speeds.

I pay for the "Premium" internet around here, marketed as being 30 mbps download, up to 10 mbps upload. Due to something being wrong here, I average between 1 and 10 mbps. Cox, my service provider, has been trying to fix this problem for about 3 weeks now, though it has been going on for probably much longer than that. I have had four technicians out here, including one who told me to clear out my "cookies and temporary internet files," even though it was plain as day that my computer has no problems with some temporary internet files. Then he broke my thermostat.

This prompted a call to my local landlady, who, after hearing the story, was UP IN ARMS about this guy, wanted his name, his station, his home address... She was on a warpath and Cox was the destination.

To give you an idea of why this is so funny, my land lady is about 5'1" with crazy curly hair and encyclopedia glasses. She tells me stories about her friends who died in motorcycle accidents, probably with the hope that I will some day put my bike away, or at least ride with a bit more sanity. Never fear, Candy (Yes, that's her real name). A saner rider you will rarely find than I. She was also extraordinarily snobbish towards us until we moved in, but after she realized we were neither poor nor delinquent we found her to be quite nice, and very capable of ripping Cox employees' balls off- a welcome twist.

It is almost March, the month wherein my motorcycle returns to its regular road rampages, snow melts and spring dreams of cascading flowers on rolling hills, ad nauseum. I enjoy March for its productivity and proclivity to warmer temperatures, and yet my girlfriend is still an hour away in college.

My girlfriend's blog is much more eloquent than mine. It also includes more naked pictures, historical facts, portents of a greater good/evil, and other such ephemera. She is here.

My apartment has been rearranged quite extensively in the past two days, mostly due to Slaughter Pens' imminent visit, but also due to my rather large dislike of the previous layout. Beds were moved, couches were moved, bookcases were moved, desks were moved, tv stands were moved, speakers were moved, the hippopotamus shaped mass of guitars was moved and organized. Somehow out of all this one-man-made chaos came order, and I now have a functional living room, clean and organized bedroom, and even a dedicated music space here next to my computer, where guitars are actually set up ready to play on stands, amplifiers are plugged in and humming in anticipatory glee, and a large firewire enabled mixing board interfaces with my computer. The hope is that I will eventually record music here, for better or worse, to the tempo of a nigh-humdrum folk-singing college almost-bound 20 something.

I'm seeking peace, though I'm afraid that everywhere I've looked for it, all I have found is anger.

Anger is a usable energy source, it is forgiving and malleable and easily extends to new targets or forgets old ones. Anger is not a blind rage or a senseless feeling of hatred, and it does not burn the soul or degrade the person, but it can lead to these things. Anger can also raise mountains and raze cities of inadequacy and weakness and all sorts of other things that begin with the letter R. I am never expecting to have to replace my anger (at life, at society, at people), but I always expect some day that it will lead me to a better place. Rather, that I will lead myself in anger out of darkness.

Perhaps by writing, or singing. Perhaps by mathematics or luthiery. Perhaps just by lending myself to another, or others, or some thing found wanting or in need.

Peace can be made in our own microcosms, happiness can be earned, and we are all one step in every direction at any time.

It's okay to be confused.